My last three days in New Orleans told me I have to move there and that it's only a matter of time now until I do. But the reality is I live in Chicago, in Pilsen, and I am here right now on 18th St. at the Jumping Bean and it feels like a place I have never been before. The short explanation for my strange sense of displacement is the last two weeks of walk about have done the trick; I am no longer riding the line of a rut.
Monday was a beautiful day, sunny, with the unfurling green smell of spring in the air, the wisteria already purpling trellises in the Quarter. I woke up and went over to the Café Rose Nicaud to write for a couple hours and then moved over to Coop's Place. It pays to be habitual when you travel. It's really your only shot at getting to know anyone. I tried the Redfish Meuniere. It was good but the sauce was a little heavy on the Worcestershire for my taste. It came with white rice and creole green beans and the fish was pan fried in their seasoned flour and then finished in a pan sautee of cream, Worcestershire, butter, shrimp, and hot sauce. I needed to find a new place to stay and asked Laura, the bartender at Coop's, where I should try. She sent me around the corner to the Chateau Motor Lodge, a nice spot on Rue Chartres. I have to tell you up front I don't have my ID with me, I said. Well I wadn't gonna ask you for it. We don't have no trouble here, the guy said.
That was another lesson I had to hear three times in New Orleans. Don't show your cards up front; it's rude and pointless and you don't give people the chance to surprise you. He smiled at my naivete and gave me a room key. I handed my car key to an old black man who avoided my eyes and then I walked back through the courtyard to where the rooms were. The hotel is an old building with a courtyard in the middle, an old-fashioned swimming pool in the middle of that, over which hangs a giant green creeping vine. Wrought iron balconies underneath the big windows and cool brick underfoot. An oasis. My room only cost me $60 and it was big, with a big bed. And tasteful. What a difference a question asked can make.
I put my things up and went back out to wander the streets. By 5pm I was ready for a beer so I walked back across Esplanade on Royal St. to the R bar. I played a few games of pool with an old timer named Valentine, watched the crowd come in after work, or before... I stayed there a long time talking to different folks. Eventually a girl came in and set up a hair-cutting booth in the corner and I watched her cut people's hair. She did a careful thoughtful job and so I decided to give it a run. You don't have too much hair baby, she said. So I'm only going to charge you $5.
We talked some. She was from Dallas. She wore home-made clothes and was long and ethereal looking. She had a court date in two days, for a charge back in Texas of possession of mushrooms. She'd been on probation for five years, since she was 19, and this was her shot at freedom. I had to buy all new clothes, she said.
Later I met Lee, who's traveled all over and now promotes different brass bands in New Orleans. He lived in Chicago before. I like Chicago, he said. It's fair. New Orleans ain't fair at all. Lee is black.
I got to bed at a decent hour, I guess, and woke up the next morning and was back at the Rose Nicaud, trying to write a ghost story whose opening paragraph I had emailed myself from the R bar the night before. I checked on line for music shows and saw that Rebirth was playing at 10pm at the Maple Leaf and I resolved to head Uptown for that show.
Afterwards I went back to Coops and had a bowl of the gumbo with extra seafood for lunch. I will tell you all right now that the fried chicken, the green beans and rice, the gumbo, the red beans and rice, and damn near anything else you might get at Coops is very tasty. The gumbo and the fried chicken, though, are at the tippy top of my listy list.
I overheard a conversation between a man they called the rabbi and young chef about their first computers in the 80s, how much RAM they had and what the processors were like and how you could customize them. Laura was there again and asked me how everything had worked out and I told her fine. I was still there.
I went back to the Rose Nicaud and wrote some more and sent some emails away and then back to the hotel. I was feeling sad about The Walkmen having moved on and being alone in the city and not having the energy to drive over to the beach in Florida, which had been my original plan. In the midst of that sadness I got the calls to take The Walkmen Chronicles down and that was sad too, cutting loose something you've been building and caring for.
So I was back at the R bar to dowse that fire down. Played pool with Valentine again and then went back to the hotel to clean up and get the car before cruising Uptown to watch Rebirth. I arrived right at 10 and the band wasn't even there yet. I stood right up in the front to get a good spot. In about a half hour the place went from half-empty to jammed so full I couldn't have left where I was if I wanted to. It was jammed full of Tulane kids and young white people ready to party and something about it rubbed me the wrong way. I watched all the musicians filter in. Rebirth, like all those brass bands, has a line-up and a hierarchy but the members flow in and out regularly. The bass drum player, who looks to me like first drum in a marching band and doesn't drink and shows up early, was waiting on the stage impatiently for his delinquent trumpets to show up and saw that there was a cardboard cutout of a black face pirate leaning against the wall. He shook his head in disbelief and then turned around and hid it behind some speakers. The sax player, a young dread in a Bob Marley section, shook his head commiserating. The crowd was restless and pushing and shoving to get in. The band went on an hour late. I was still in front. I love their music but I couldn't get over the vibe. A drunk girl was shoving people around as she danced. The guys in the band looked disdainfully at the crowd. Their crew hung in the back, eating food and watching with dark looks, over sea of moving rich white heads. I left after the first set with the phrase "Fuck Uptown" ringing in my head.
I put the car up and went to bed. Next day at the Rose Nicaud again, writing again. And the Coop's again, eating again, this time fried chicken with red beans and rice. Oh my it was good. Three pieces of pan fried chicken cooked to order over a heaping plate of long simmered red beans and rice. I had an Abita amber lager, two of em actually, and then went back to the hotel to nap. I woke up around 4 and went out and walked around the antique shops looking for cool costume jewelry. I found some really nice Bakelite pieces. Afterwards I went to Lafitte's bar on Bourbon St., which advertises as the oldest bar in America, and I had a Myer's rum and soda, two of em actually, and talked to a couple from Anchorage, Alaska, who were cruising in a motor home.
Then I was back to the R bar. I hadn't actually been playing very good pool, but I felt different that night and won my first three games before the sharks started to arrive with their own stick. I lost to one of em, in two turns, and went back to the bar, where I met Leonard, a very cool brother who had just gotten off of work, which is doing site locations for the movies. It is big news down in the Marigny that Brad and Angelina have bought places and moved in, but there is always a steady flow of stories being told about New Orleans. And who's to say I can't make some kind of living telling em. The guy who'd beaten me was still on the table over an hour later. I don't even like playing when that guy's around, Leonard said. I had a feeling though, so I put two quarters down. He broke and nothing went down and then he had a real bad lay on the low balls. I beat him by making three shots in a row and hitting the 8 and he looked like he'd been gut shot. Valentine smiled and winked at me and I began the greatest pool run in my whole life, one in which an weed-induced revelation outside led me to truly understand how to line the balls up, pick spot on them, and center that spot between my feet before pushing the stick through. My run was so devastating in the R bar, that after a while there was no one to play. I went over to a young guy I'd played who was pretty good and asked him to play and his girlfriend looked at me angrily. Why don't you go try to hustle somewhere else? Cause I already made my $400 tonight.
I had no one left to talk to either. The bartender had just gotten off and I went over and said hi and she scowled at me and said, Why won't anyone ever just leave me alone? Okay, cher, goddamn I understand.
So I walked back to Frenchmen St and that's when the fun really started. From two blocks away I heard some funky drumming and went in, drink in hand already, to an open place where a young white kid was kicking out some tight music school beatage. Then I worked on down the street and heard what I most love, brass band music, and saw a young band, up and comers playing to no one. I walked right up there and could not keep from dancing. They played a version of the song "On the Night Shift" that blew my socks off and pretty soon we had the whole dance floor full, including members of the band, and there was a little bit of a dance off between one of the young guys in the band and an old guy who came in wearing his Mardi Gras krew sash.
Now I was really drunk, in the happiest sense, and full of music so I went from place to place and wound up arm in arm with three young ladies who took me back to the R bar and we had some more nice time before they disappeared into the night and I walked, bleary, back to the Chateau to lay me head down.
The next morning Coops again. Fried Chicken and Red Beans Again. Miss Laura again. And I saw Joe Fontaigne in there, the man who inspired the character Bobby in my story Callin Em Back. Why don't you come back down for the Jazz Fest, he said. We'll hook ya up. And all the while I couldn't help shaking the whisper out of my head. Laissez Bon Temps Roulee.
That was another lesson I had to hear three times in New Orleans. Don't show your cards up front; it's rude and pointless and you don't give people the chance to surprise you. He smiled at my naivete and gave me a room key. I handed my car key to an old black man who avoided my eyes and then I walked back through the courtyard to where the rooms were. The hotel is an old building with a courtyard in the middle, an old-fashioned swimming pool in the middle of that, over which hangs a giant green creeping vine. Wrought iron balconies underneath the big windows and cool brick underfoot. An oasis. My room only cost me $60 and it was big, with a big bed. And tasteful. What a difference a question asked can make.
I put my things up and went back out to wander the streets. By 5pm I was ready for a beer so I walked back across Esplanade on Royal St. to the R bar. I played a few games of pool with an old timer named Valentine, watched the crowd come in after work, or before... I stayed there a long time talking to different folks. Eventually a girl came in and set up a hair-cutting booth in the corner and I watched her cut people's hair. She did a careful thoughtful job and so I decided to give it a run. You don't have too much hair baby, she said. So I'm only going to charge you $5.
We talked some. She was from Dallas. She wore home-made clothes and was long and ethereal looking. She had a court date in two days, for a charge back in Texas of possession of mushrooms. She'd been on probation for five years, since she was 19, and this was her shot at freedom. I had to buy all new clothes, she said.
Later I met Lee, who's traveled all over and now promotes different brass bands in New Orleans. He lived in Chicago before. I like Chicago, he said. It's fair. New Orleans ain't fair at all. Lee is black.
I got to bed at a decent hour, I guess, and woke up the next morning and was back at the Rose Nicaud, trying to write a ghost story whose opening paragraph I had emailed myself from the R bar the night before. I checked on line for music shows and saw that Rebirth was playing at 10pm at the Maple Leaf and I resolved to head Uptown for that show.
Afterwards I went back to Coops and had a bowl of the gumbo with extra seafood for lunch. I will tell you all right now that the fried chicken, the green beans and rice, the gumbo, the red beans and rice, and damn near anything else you might get at Coops is very tasty. The gumbo and the fried chicken, though, are at the tippy top of my listy list.
I overheard a conversation between a man they called the rabbi and young chef about their first computers in the 80s, how much RAM they had and what the processors were like and how you could customize them. Laura was there again and asked me how everything had worked out and I told her fine. I was still there.
I went back to the Rose Nicaud and wrote some more and sent some emails away and then back to the hotel. I was feeling sad about The Walkmen having moved on and being alone in the city and not having the energy to drive over to the beach in Florida, which had been my original plan. In the midst of that sadness I got the calls to take The Walkmen Chronicles down and that was sad too, cutting loose something you've been building and caring for.
So I was back at the R bar to dowse that fire down. Played pool with Valentine again and then went back to the hotel to clean up and get the car before cruising Uptown to watch Rebirth. I arrived right at 10 and the band wasn't even there yet. I stood right up in the front to get a good spot. In about a half hour the place went from half-empty to jammed so full I couldn't have left where I was if I wanted to. It was jammed full of Tulane kids and young white people ready to party and something about it rubbed me the wrong way. I watched all the musicians filter in. Rebirth, like all those brass bands, has a line-up and a hierarchy but the members flow in and out regularly. The bass drum player, who looks to me like first drum in a marching band and doesn't drink and shows up early, was waiting on the stage impatiently for his delinquent trumpets to show up and saw that there was a cardboard cutout of a black face pirate leaning against the wall. He shook his head in disbelief and then turned around and hid it behind some speakers. The sax player, a young dread in a Bob Marley section, shook his head commiserating. The crowd was restless and pushing and shoving to get in. The band went on an hour late. I was still in front. I love their music but I couldn't get over the vibe. A drunk girl was shoving people around as she danced. The guys in the band looked disdainfully at the crowd. Their crew hung in the back, eating food and watching with dark looks, over sea of moving rich white heads. I left after the first set with the phrase "Fuck Uptown" ringing in my head.
I put the car up and went to bed. Next day at the Rose Nicaud again, writing again. And the Coop's again, eating again, this time fried chicken with red beans and rice. Oh my it was good. Three pieces of pan fried chicken cooked to order over a heaping plate of long simmered red beans and rice. I had an Abita amber lager, two of em actually, and then went back to the hotel to nap. I woke up around 4 and went out and walked around the antique shops looking for cool costume jewelry. I found some really nice Bakelite pieces. Afterwards I went to Lafitte's bar on Bourbon St., which advertises as the oldest bar in America, and I had a Myer's rum and soda, two of em actually, and talked to a couple from Anchorage, Alaska, who were cruising in a motor home.
Then I was back to the R bar. I hadn't actually been playing very good pool, but I felt different that night and won my first three games before the sharks started to arrive with their own stick. I lost to one of em, in two turns, and went back to the bar, where I met Leonard, a very cool brother who had just gotten off of work, which is doing site locations for the movies. It is big news down in the Marigny that Brad and Angelina have bought places and moved in, but there is always a steady flow of stories being told about New Orleans. And who's to say I can't make some kind of living telling em. The guy who'd beaten me was still on the table over an hour later. I don't even like playing when that guy's around, Leonard said. I had a feeling though, so I put two quarters down. He broke and nothing went down and then he had a real bad lay on the low balls. I beat him by making three shots in a row and hitting the 8 and he looked like he'd been gut shot. Valentine smiled and winked at me and I began the greatest pool run in my whole life, one in which an weed-induced revelation outside led me to truly understand how to line the balls up, pick spot on them, and center that spot between my feet before pushing the stick through. My run was so devastating in the R bar, that after a while there was no one to play. I went over to a young guy I'd played who was pretty good and asked him to play and his girlfriend looked at me angrily. Why don't you go try to hustle somewhere else? Cause I already made my $400 tonight.
I had no one left to talk to either. The bartender had just gotten off and I went over and said hi and she scowled at me and said, Why won't anyone ever just leave me alone? Okay, cher, goddamn I understand.
So I walked back to Frenchmen St and that's when the fun really started. From two blocks away I heard some funky drumming and went in, drink in hand already, to an open place where a young white kid was kicking out some tight music school beatage. Then I worked on down the street and heard what I most love, brass band music, and saw a young band, up and comers playing to no one. I walked right up there and could not keep from dancing. They played a version of the song "On the Night Shift" that blew my socks off and pretty soon we had the whole dance floor full, including members of the band, and there was a little bit of a dance off between one of the young guys in the band and an old guy who came in wearing his Mardi Gras krew sash.
Now I was really drunk, in the happiest sense, and full of music so I went from place to place and wound up arm in arm with three young ladies who took me back to the R bar and we had some more nice time before they disappeared into the night and I walked, bleary, back to the Chateau to lay me head down.
The next morning Coops again. Fried Chicken and Red Beans Again. Miss Laura again. And I saw Joe Fontaigne in there, the man who inspired the character Bobby in my story Callin Em Back. Why don't you come back down for the Jazz Fest, he said. We'll hook ya up. And all the while I couldn't help shaking the whisper out of my head. Laissez Bon Temps Roulee.
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